A short
excerpt from my upcoming New Adult book, which I haven't yet titled because naming books stresses me out. For now, let's just call it A story about guilt and forgiveness and loss and love and trust and hope. (See why I have trouble naming my books?)

***

We fall on his bed and the kissing
turns into something more, which is right about the time my eyes—and my
mind—start to wander.

Why is his room so clean all the
time? I mean seriously. Everything is so tidy and organized. His desk is spotless.
His shoes are in neat little pairs in his closet. It’s not natural.

And why is it so quiet in here? He
lives in a campus apartment, for God's sake. Why aren’t his neighbors throwing a kegger
and blasting music through the walls? A little noise would be nice.

Before I know it, our shirts are
gone and his hand moves down my ribcage as he settles on top of me, trailing
kisses along my neck. I stare down his broad back with a frown. I should
probably do something here, like sink my nails into his shoulder blades or grab
his ass or something.

Meh.

I slowly flatten my palms against his back
in a symmetrical way and try to relax my arms. Why is he always so warm? And
why the frack is he still sucking on my neck?

He just ate popcorn and now he’s
tonguing my throat and leaving a trail of buttery germs in his wake. And I swear to God his
scruffy jaw is going to rub my skin raw.

The germs start to spread lower as my eyes wander back to his desk. There’s not even a pen out of place.
Should I have my eyes closed? Why is he
breathing so hard? Is that a piece of gum on his
ceiling?

Focus, girl. Focus.

My eyes flutter a bit as his hand
glides over my thigh and up between my legs. My skirt has ridden up, so I’m
pretty much just laying here in my panties, holding onto his overly-warm back
as his jeans press against the inside of my legs.

He brings his popcorn tongue up
to my mouth and kisses me deeply. I force my eyes shut and try to concentrate
on kissing him back as the scruff on his jaw scratches against my face like a bristle brush. Maybe I’ll
buy him a new razor. But not an electric one. Those aren’t always reliable.

Who invented electric razors? Who
was shaving their face one day and thought, you
know what this flat knife against my throat needs? A battery. Perhaps I should invent
a razor with a cord—

Matt yanks back from me and sits up
on his knees with a frustrated exhale.

"What?" I sit up and cover my boobs. "What’s wrong?”

I notice his hair looks perfectly
styled. Aren’t people supposed to have messed up hair after sex—or almost sex?
That’s probably my fault. Shoot. I need to remember to mess up his hair.

He runs a hand over his mouth.
“Maybe I should ask you.”

“Uh…” I glance at his spotless desk
again.

“You’re not into this.”

“Yes I am,” I say quickly. Too
quickly. “Sex. Let’s do this.” I roll my hips in an embarrassingly unflattering way and clap my hands together like I'm breaking up a football huddle.